*Misty and Dew-laden tales..*.
With time, the dynamics of relations alter, feelings toughen, resolutions strengthen and the impact of incidents dilute...What does remain the same is the way you feel about certain things...
Uruka symbolizes one such emotion for me. Traversing through the dheki (ঢেঁকী), ural (উৰাল), khundona (খুন্দনা), mixer - grinder to the current - day superfast food processor, I have seen the pitha (পিঠা) emerging out of different origins - though the shape, size , taste and texture differs, the aftermath of having eaten one infuses me with the same fulfillment and happiness. In the days leading up to Magh Bihu, the dheki was central to preparing rice flour (পিঠা-গুড়ি) for making pitha and other delicacies. Multiple family members would gather to operate it, taking turns to press the heavy foot lever while others ensured the rice was ground to perfection. The rhythmic sound of the dheki in the early morning or late evening created a festive atmosphere, and my ears can almost hear that rhythm and the image of Aita, Borma and Ma operating the dheki flashes up in front of my eyes. Operating a dheki wasn’t just about grinding rice; it was a team effort. Children, siblings, and cousins often tried their hands at it, with laughter filling the air when someone struggled to match the rhythm.
My senses become fragrant with roasted sesame, ground sticky rice, kumol saul (কোমল চাউল) and the syrupy smell of jaggery at my Deuta's home in Lahoal.. The eagerly awaited night feast of uruka was looked forward to with the same gusto with which we now wait for the exhibitions of *Assamese mekhela- sadors*! Deta and the others used to get meat and fish. Fresh river fish used to be the star of the meal, usually sitol (চিতল), and without fatty mutton or teliya haah (তেলীয়া হাঁহ), dinner was unimaginable. Chicken was not a staple, and in our household, there was a separate utensil to cook chicken meat; there was a designated place and soru (চৰু) outside the main kitchen for cooking chicken.
Yam or kathaaloo (কাঠ আলু) , usually sliced and fried in hot mustard oil, was the snack of choice. In those days, chips, fish fingers, kebabs, etc were unheard of, and কাঠ আলু was the star- snack. Jitu da, Deuta, Dhon da, etc gathered at the bor-ghor (বৰ ঘৰ) to play rummy, while Ranju da waited with bated breath for the lottery ticket results! As quinoa, daliya, brown rice , etc were alien entities, the main course comprised of steaming rice , mostly joha (জহাচাউল) , and black gram dal, thick spicy mutton curry, a delicate fish sour curry (ৰৌ / ভুকুৱা), sitol fish spicy curry, duck meat cooked with ash-gourd - everything usually cooked in wood fire using mustard oil....A light dish of vegetables was also usually added. Mothers, grandmothers and aunts held the fort in the culinary area , passing down recipes to younger generations. Uruka used to be a night of lively discussions, great ambience and merriment.
The bihu next day was awesome. In the distance, the muffled sound of a rooster's crow signaled the start of the day. Smoke began to curl from the roofs of the houses, as fires were lit to prepare morning meals.I remember that there used to be a bio-gas plant (গোবৰ গেছ) plant in our backyard. The rhythmic sound of dheki echoed faintly, blending seamlessly with the chirping of sparrows and the occasional moo of a cow. There were no loud speakers blaring out cacophony. Waking up early in the morning, we took an early shower and rushed to see the meji (মেজি) being lit. It was said that after that day, the winter season wanes. The mist hung low over the fields, blurring the lines between the earth and the sky. It felt as if the world was cocooned in a dream, where every sound was muffled and every movement deliberate. The air was cool and crisp, carrying with it the faint aroma of freshly harvested paddy and the lingering scent of firewood from the night before. I can vividly see the people who created such magic in my life, but are no longer with me now - Deuta, Aita, Arun Bortta, Rin Jethai, Lila Jethai, Margherita Jethai, Naamti Jethai, Bina Jethai, Puna Bortta, Bipul da and the many others who faded into nowhere......Walking barefoot on the fields was an experience in itself. The grass, heavy with dew, sparkled in the soft morning light like a million tiny diamonds. Each step left an imprint, a fleeting mark of life on the soaked earth. The touch of the cold dew against the skin was a reminder of nature's raw beauty—pure, untamed, and alive.
After the meji burning, all would have breakfast together, sitting in the winter morning sun. Gathering around the meji on the morning of Bihu, with everyone dressed in traditional attire, chanting prayers, and making offerings to the fire, used to be a serene and unifying moment. The foggy mornings, dew-laden fields, and smell of firewood burning created a sensory memory that is hard to forget. The innocence and slower pace of life added charm to the festival. Now, surrounded by concrete, feeding myself with various irrelevant information from the internet, sipping bitter black coffee with readymade pitha from the local grocer and gazing at the pitiful meji on my immaculate terrace, I long for the misty mornings and dew-laden fields which held a profound stillness that invited reflection, which were taken for granted by my younger self. In the quiet of nature, there was a sense of belonging, of being part of something larger. The world, though seemingly vast, felt intimate, as if every blade of grass and every drop of dew had its place and purpose. And as the driver rings the bell to collect the car keys, I sigh and get up to face the day, thinking of the fine til-pitha, long and smooth, made lovingly by Anju Borma, and the eagerness to talk about small nothings with Lina ba and Juna ba...
